U5 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
Hurd $kttc|} Hook. 
CARRIE LANGLY’S CHOICE, 
A LEAP YEAR STORY. 
CHAPTER III, 
A few evenings after, Geo. Woods called 
upon Carrie, who received him very gracious¬ 
ly, though tho same could not be said of 
aunt Mary. Carrie was very industriously 
employed upon what appeared to be shirts, 
and aunt Mary had discovered that they were 
shirts ; but trying in vain to solve tho rid¬ 
dle, she had come to tho sago conclusion 
that»Carrio was making them as a present 
for Ned Ray, and intended to surprise him 
with them upon his next visit. Tho old lady 
pleased herself mightily with tho idea that 
it was a good sign to her hopes, that Carrie 
choso to make them with her own hands. 
“ It strikos me Miss Langley,” observed 
Woods, “ that you are unusually industri¬ 
ous this evening. Are you, too, like some 
of my lady friends, working for the mission¬ 
aries' ?” 
Carrie blusliod scarlet, whilst her aunt 
snarled out: 
“ If you can find out who these shirts are 
for, you'll do what / can’t, but I have my 
suspicions that they aro for my Edward,” 
anil here the dame looked triumphant. 
Her niece took no notice of her remark, 
but with an arch glance at Mr. Woods, an¬ 
swered, 
“ Perhaps if I do those nicely, you will 
permit me to make some for yourself.” 
“ With much pleasure ; and had I known 
a few clays ago you were a shirt-maker, I 
would have applied to you, but now it is too 
late, I fear; however, 1 will engage you for 
tho next I have made. But nonsense aside. 
I am reminded of a favor I have to request. 
A young girl has lately made application to 
my mother for assistance and work, who 
has a sick parent dependent upon her.— 
Mother is much too feeble to go out this 
weather, but has taken pains to inquire 
about them, and learns that they are wor¬ 
thy of assistance. As they livo quite near 
here, I have presumed to toll you about 
them, thinking you may like to render some 
aid.” 
Much relieved was Carrie that aunt Mary 
was called from the room at that moment; 
but by tho greatest exertion she put on a 
sober face and sympatnjzing look, whilst she 
inquired tho name and abode of the needy 
persons, and readily promised their relief. 
“ Indeed,” added she, “ I will seek them out 
to-morrow.” 
George seemed pleased, and for once ap¬ 
peared perfectly at ease in Miss Langley’s 
presence ; but in tho midst of an animated 
discussion the door opened to givo entrance 
to De Clinton. 
Carrie sprang quickly to her feet, her 
whole countenance flashing with indigna¬ 
tion ; instantly recollecting herself howev¬ 
er, her manner changed, and she welcomed 
him civily but without her usual warmth.— 
With a pale cheek, and her frame trembling 
with agitation, she seated herself; but her 
conversation, though intended to be lively, 
was evidently constrained for some time. 
Both the young men noticed tho sudden 
change in her and both were equally puz¬ 
zled : yet De Clinton accosted her with his 
own peculiar graco, but noticed Goorge only 
with a slight frown and a haughty inclina¬ 
tion of the head. 
Finally George rose to withdraw, but an 
appealing glance from Carrie, accompanied 
by a quick, significant motion of her hand, 
(unperceived by Gustave) detained him.— 
What could it mean ? 
Was Carrie averse to being left with De 
Clinton, or did she prefer his company ?— 
He could not decide, but the smallest possi¬ 
ble ray of hope found its way into his heart, 
revived from the embers which had been 
nearly extinguised by Carrie’s evident par¬ 
tiality for his whiskered rival. 
Carrie adroitly brought the conversation 
to bear upon the severity of the season, and 
the probable amount of suffering am jng the 
poorer classes, adding that she thought those 
who were able did not sufficiently exert 
themselves for their relief; then addressing 
Gustave, sho observed: 
‘■Mr. Woods has just been relating a caso 
of nocessitv which has come under his ob¬ 
servation; and perhaps I may tax your gen¬ 
erosity as well as his, for their benefit, as I 
intend to make myself quite a ‘ Sister of 
Charity’ forthwith.” 
I shall be most happy to do all in my 
power,” replied Do Clinton, “ and I quite 
approve of your benevolent spirit. I know 
ot no one who would better appear a ‘ min¬ 
istering angel.’ Indeed, I really could be 
happy in bearing poverty myself, were it 
only to recoivo relief from your fair hand.” 
Then, after a pause, ho resumed, “ My own 
sympathies were greatly enlisted a few days 
sii ei, by a poor girl who applied to me for 
cl anty in behalf of her parent, and I felt 
tl at the few dollars I bestowed could not bo 
illy disposed.” 
Strange was tho expression that crossed 
Carrie’s fair face, but she quietly asked, 
“ Did you ascertain tho name and circum¬ 
stances of tho family ?” 
“ I did ; but unfortunately have forgotten 
tho name of tho girl, and I did not learn 
whore she lived, which I much regret.” 
“ Perhaps, Mr. Woods,” said Carrie, “your 
mother’s protege and Mr.*De Clinton’s may 
be the same person.” 
“Possibly, but I do not imagine it at all 
probable.” 
Here Aunt Mary made her appearance, 
and after looking very cross and fidgeting 
about for a while, hinted in no very gentle 
terms that it was time to close tho house for 
the night, as it was past nine, upon which 
the young gentlemen expeditiously departed. 
A woek or two passed, and Carrie stitched 
busily upon the shirts, when Aunt Mary 
was sent for, to go directly to her adopted 
son, who was laying dangerously ill in a 
distant town. In vain she insisted on Car¬ 
rie’s accompanying her; Carrio was deter¬ 
mined to remain, and Tor once be her own 
mistress, and surely she shed no tears whon 
she. saw the old laity depart on her journey. 
De Clinton called one evening, and found 
Miss Langley surrounded by a company of 
young friends, who seemed to take it for 
granted that ho was tho accepted lover of 
Carrie. 
Tho following day Carrie had occasion to 
visit the store where Gustave was employed. 
Whilst examining some fabric near a very 
high pile of dry goods, sho accidentally 
heard a dialogue from behind it, between a 
young man who had just entered and some 
one whom she could not perceive. 
“ Come, Gus, go down to the S-to¬ 
night, will you ?’ mentioning a noted gam¬ 
bling saloon. 
“ Not to-night,” answered the well-known 
voice of De Clinton, “for I am bound to 
visit my pretty heiress; I have discovered 
that her old beldame of an aunt is out of 
the way. just now, so I am going to press my 
suit whilst the coast is clear; but after I 
have secured tho prize, of which I have no 
doubt whatever, and pocketed the ‘ tin,’ then 
I'll go wherever you ploase.” 
“ That’s right, my boy, and I hope the 
happy day will come speedily. I wish I was 
a ‘ lucky dog,’ like yourself and could cap¬ 
ture a prize with a full cargo.” ' 
Carrie stopped no longer to listen, but 
hurried from the store, forgetting her pur¬ 
chases ; and on reaching homo, sat down 
and indulged in a hearty cry, though thank¬ 
ful enough that her eyes had been opened 
to tho character of Gustave ere it was too 
late. Sho could scarcely believe that she 
had ever preferred him to George, whom 
she now thought was vastly his superior. 
Evening came, and with it the expected 
visitor, who was delighted to find Carrie 
alone, to whom, after^a few preliminary re¬ 
marks, he made an eloquent offer of his 
heart and hand ; but what was his surprise 
and chagrin to receive a decided refusal.— 
Ere he could recover from his vexation, Car¬ 
rie coolly drew from her purse a dime, and 
placing it in his hand whilst her eye Hashed 
with indignation, thus addressed him : 
“ I beg to return to you the ‘few dollars’ 
which your ‘ sympathy’ led you to bestow 
on tho evening which, to satisfy myself in 
regard to your traits of character, I visited 
you in disguise, and found that ‘ all is not 
gold that glitters,’ and that an object of 
sympathy is not always free from insult. I 
advise you to appropriate this generous sum 
towards defraying your washing bill-, and 
allow me to add also, that the next time you 
are making free with your S- saloon 
companions about pretty heiresses, beldame 
aunts, and pocketing tin, first ascertain who 
is within hearing.” 
De Clinton had sat as if spell-bound du¬ 
ring her speech, but all too soon did he re- 
congnize those eyes, and with a hurried im¬ 
precation, more deep than loud, he sprung 
to his feet and rushed from the house, grind¬ 
ing his teeth with mortification and rago. 
Soon after George Woods entered, and his 
heart beat high at the welcome he received; 
answering to the remark of Carrie “that he 
was a great stranger,” that he had “ but just 
returned after a fortnight’s absence from 
the city.” 
George thought he had never found his 
young hostess so agreeable, and felt himself 
uncommonly at ease. In tho midst of a 
lively conversation, ho asked Carrie if she 
had finished her cousin Edward’s work to 
her aunt’s satisfaction. 
“ Carrie looked surprised and blushed as 
sho answered, “ This work was not for Ned ; 
but why do you"say my cousin Edward ?” 
“ Perhaps I should have said your broth¬ 
er, then, as you are, I understand, your 
aunt’s adopted daughter; but he is also 
cousin, is he not ?” 
“ Ho is neither brother nor cousin, as he 
is the adopted child of Aunt Mary ; but you 
aro quite mistaken in supposing that I stand 
in the same relation to her; sho is only my 
great aunt, though she has had tho care of 
myself and household since the decease of 
my mother.” 
Her auditor seemed much surprised at 
her explanation. Carrie soon excused her 
self and left tho room. In a moment sho 
returned, and laying before George a large 
package and a two dollar bill, in an agitated 
voice obsorved, 
“ Hero are tho shirts which I have mado 
for you, and tho money you gave me with 
your own hand. I hope you will forgive me 
when I tell you that I presented myself to 
you. asking charity in tho disguise of Nan¬ 
cy Sims, and that she who was formerly my 
domestic was knowing to my stratagem.” 
George looked the picture of bewilder¬ 
ment, gazing at the roguish face of Carrie, 
who had suddenly recovered her spirits : but 
when, after waiting in vain for an answer, 
she in a pleading tone asked : 
“ Will you not forgive mo ?” 
He grasped her hand and exclaimed : 
“ I can forgive you anything, but I much 
wish to know your motive for artifice, if I 
may so call it. Will you not gratify me T 
“ I will oxplain after you have answered 
me one question,” and tho blushing girl 
trembled like an aspen, as sho gently laid 
her hand upon his shoulder, whilst in fal¬ 
tering accents she inquired “ George, will 
you marry me?" 
If Woods was astonished before, ho might 
now have passed for a statue of stupiiied 
amazement, and there he sat, staring at Car¬ 
rie liko one absolutely bereft of his senses; 
but sho, now that tho “ murder was out,” 
felt much relieved, and could hardly help 
laughing heartily at the effect of her ques¬ 
tion. George still remained unable to com¬ 
prehend, and piiying his embarrassment, 
she said gently,— 
“ Speak., George, or I shall think you re¬ 
ject mo!” 
He was aroused by her words, and in a 
voice trembling with eagerness, cried, 
“ Oh, Miss Langley—Carrie, say that I 
am not dreaming ! that this happiness is re¬ 
ality, that I heard aright!” 
“I am in earnest, my friend, and have 
only to remind you that this is Leap Year, 
in excuse for my boldness.” 
“ George folded her to his heart, as he 
ejaculated, “ Dearest Carrie, you have made 
me the happiest of mortals. I have loved 
you, worshipped you ardently, but dared 
not aspire to your affections, you, who are 
surrounded by wealth and luxury. I could 
not forbear seeing you; but though each 
interview endeared you the more to me, I 
had not the courage to ask you to leave your 
affluence to share my humble home. She 
whom I supposed your adopted mother, ev¬ 
idently was not pleased with my visits ; but 
so long as I was welcomed by yourself, I 
dared brave her dislike. Just as I had be¬ 
gun to hope I was not indifferent to you, a 
rival appeared and I despaired. But I can 
scarcely realize now that it is not all a dream. 
[.Tell me, dear Carrie, once more, that it is 
not.” 
Carrie did tell him, and explained all to 
her wondering lover; and how indignant 
was he at De Clinton, and how amazed was 
he to learn that Carrie was not, as he sup¬ 
posed, dependent upon a wealthy aunt, but 
the possessor of a large property; for he 
had not, like Gustave, inquired about tho 
matter ; and how amused was he at her anx¬ 
iety to learn the private as well as the pub¬ 
lic character of her lovers, though ho liked 
her all the better for it. 
Late enough was it when they separated, 
for each had much to say, and plans to set¬ 
tle, and no Aunt Mary was there to hint that 
it was “ time to close the house.” 
XuMfs 1 Jejiartment. 
Written for the Rural New-Yorker. 
MEMORY’S TOKENS- 
CHAPTER IV. 
Poor Aunt Mary ! Little did you dream, 
as on the twenty-ninth of February you 
were congratulating your Edward that in a 
few days he would be well enough “ to go 
home with you and see Carrie, and hoped 
he would never have to leave her again,”—I 
say, little did you imagine that on that very 
day Carrie Langley had become Carrie 
W oods. 
A bout ten days after that event, early in 
the evening, Aunt Mary and her son were 
set down at Carrie’s door, and had entered 
un perceived. 
Hearing the merry laugh of her niece 
ringing in the parlor. Aunt Mary threw open 
the door and what a sight did she witness ! 
There stood Carrie with one hand pressed 
over the eyes of a gentleman, while with the 
other sho was playfully struggling to snatch 
a paper which ho held at arm's length from 
her, and who was earnestly appealing to a 
smiling, though pale looking elderly lady, 
whom he called mother, to interfere in his 
behalf. A young lad sat by the table, with 
a school book before him ; but his laughing 
eyes were watching the young couple. 
The door flew open, and there, liko an 
apparation, appeared Aunt Mary, and by 
her side Ned Ray. The young man’s eyes 
were instantly relieved from bondage, the 
paper dropped to the floor, and a pause en¬ 
sued, more embarrassing than agreeable.— 
Aunt Mary gazed awfully around, and then 
upon her niece, who advanced to meet her 
directly; but to her salutation, she only ex¬ 
claimed : 
“Well, really, Miss ! I did not know you 
were on such familiar terms with Mr. Woods. 
You have improved greatly in my absence; 
and have you taken boarders, also T cast¬ 
ing a withering glance at the pale lady and 
the boy. 
“ Did you not receivo my letter ?” asked 
Carrie, apparently surprised, 
“ I have had no letter !” vociferated tho 
shrill tones of her aunt; “ but I should liko 
to know what you mean by such actions as 
I just witnessed ?” 
Drawing herself up with dignity, Carrie 
replied : 
“ Aunt, I have taken tho liborty of get¬ 
ting married, of which I informed you by 
letter. Let me introduce you to my hus¬ 
band, also his mother and brother. Mrs. 
Woods, this is my aunt, of whom I have spo¬ 
ken to you, and I hope you will bo friends.” 
Aunt Mary was confounded—she couldn’t 
speak; but she shrieked,— 
“ Married, you hussy, what do you mean ! 
You vile, ungrateful girl, to take advantage 
of mo in this way, and to marry that mean 
fellow too! I’ll break the bonds, I will,” 
and she stopped for breath, when George 
coming forward, welcomed her, and said 
that he hoped she would not continue dis¬ 
pleased with him for robbing her of Carrio, 
“ but,” said he, “ as she is my wife, I cannot 
permit you to use such epithets towards 
her.” 
Aunt Mary would not hear him, but storm¬ 
ed and raved, and finally wont off into hys¬ 
terics, to the great, though secret merri¬ 
ment of the domestics, who dotested her as 
much as thoy loved their young mistress. 
Poor Ned! when Carrio spoko to him, 
and introduced George, who had blasted all 
his expectations,—for aunt Mary had taught 
him to believe that her niece and her niece’s 
property were destined to be his own,— 
poor Ned tried to faint, and partially suc¬ 
ceeded. 
Aunt Mary recovered from her tantrum 
at last, but nothing would prevail on her 
to remain in the house. Off sho bundled 
that night, taking Ned with her, and for a 
long time sho utterly refused to see George 
or Carrie, but finally became reconciled in 
a measure. Never, however, has she dis¬ 
covered that it was owing to the conven 
ience of Leap year that her niece escaped 
her oppression.— Boston Olive Branch. 
A silken* curl, with its threads of gold, 
A treasured letter, its own true fold, 
A golden hoop from a cherished hand, 
A flower culled in a distant land. 
Are sacred links of the past to me, 
For they thrill my soul with the memory 
Of absent ones, not lost, but gone 
To the “ spirit land ”—their native home, 
They had passed away from this vale of tears, 
Before the weight of Time’s with’ring years 
Had power to crush the buds of truth, 
Which ever adorn the heart of youth; 
And now they lie in the quiet grave, 
Where the violets bloom and the grasses wave 
In the breeze which steals o’er their lonely bed, 
They are numbered, alas 1 with the sleeping dead 1 
Alas 1 they are sleeping; the loving child, 
With her step of light and her laugh so wild. 
The cheering tones of her voice of glee 
Are breathed in the dirge of memory; 
This long bright curl of her golden hair, 
Is all that remains of the child so fair 
That she seemed too pure for this world of ours, 
She’s an angel of light in heavenly bowers. 
Alas 1 they are sleeping; the heart is cold 
Which prompted the lines in the letter’s fold. 
Lines which told of a fervent love 
Pure as a sereph’s in the world above. 
The ring as an emblem and pledge was given 
The jewel is here—'the giver in heaven. 
Alas 1 they aro sleeping; that holy one, 
A martyr’s crown, for his brow hath won; 
His life he had taken in his hands to give 
To Him who had died that he might live, 
As an offering rich, and perfumed by tears, 
Which burned on the altar but two short years, 
And then was removed by its Maker's hand, 
To eternally glow in the “ fairer land!” 
Medina, Orleans Co., N. Y. Lf.ttie. 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
SUGGESTIONS TO YOUNG LADIES 
OX THE PURSUIT OF LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC STUDIES. 
tutional organization. It is this desire of 
employment combined with an intuitive 
inquisitiveness, which rightly directed leads 
to the most beneficial results. Let those 
who are reclining in the lap of luxury, for¬ 
getful of the manifold blessings which thoy 
enjoy, devote the brief time allotted them 
to some pursuit worthy of their station.— 
The pleasure of doing our duty—the con¬ 
sciousness of not having lived in vain, is of 
itself a sufficient remuneration to enforce 
this injunction. 
Again, when we considor that we owe all 
the comforts and the luxuries of civilized 
life to the industry, invention and intelli¬ 
gence of mankind, even the liberty and ex¬ 
alted position of woman herself, (for among 
tho barbarous and uncivilized, she is but a 
mere slave,) shall woman fold her hands 
and say she has nothing to do ? Shall she 
feel this debt incumbent upon her and not 
endeavor to discharge it ? Though she may 
not be directly beneficial to those who have 
benefited her, yet in their representatives, 
her children, sho may, at least, in a measuro 
compensate tho obligation. 
Royalton, N. Y., 1852. B. A. Mc’N. 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
THOUGHTS FROM MY SCHOOL ROOM. 
It is not so difficult a task to plant new 
truths as to root old errors, for thore is this 
paradox in men, they run after that which 
is new, but are prejudiced in favor of that 
which is old. 
Everything, when tending to decay, has 
a mystery it did not possess in its bloom. 
II. ITS PLEASURE, AND AS A DUTY. 
There is, in my estimation, more pure 
enjoyment derived from tho pursuit of 
knowledge, aside from its advantages, than 
from any other employment. Beside, none 
are debarred from it, and those who have 
not tho requisite time and money to devote 
to it, will find that by improving their lei¬ 
sure moments and vacant hours, when noth¬ 
ing else could be pursued to advantage, that 
they are making progress far beyond their 
expectations. Whether wo pursue it as a 
task or as a pastime, the same undivided in¬ 
terest seems to draw us along the rippling 
current, until we lose ourselves in the laby¬ 
rinth of thought. Wo discover a new world 
open upon us. We find a strange beauty, 
a mystery, and a wonderful mechanism in 
the most insignificant objects around us.— 
This dull, common-place world seems sud¬ 
denly endowed with transcendant beauty : 
while myriads of tongues blend their an¬ 
thems in praises to their Maker. 
When we conceive the vast field spread 
out before us for investigation, much as we 
may desire to know, we shrink back in 
temerity from the task before us, fearful 
that we are inadequate to its performance. 
Patience and industry defy difficulties. Tho 
mountain is composed of grains of sand.— 
Learn one truth at a time—learn it in the¬ 
ory and practice, and make it minister to 
the wants of humanity. It is well when 
practicable, to blend the useful with the 
beautiful, but let it be borne in mind, that 
the useful should ever predominate. 
I wish I could impress upon tho heart of 
every young lady in indelible characters, 
the beauty, the true nobility, of a refined 
and cultivated mind. There aro but few 
who have not leisure enough to obtain a 
fund of information in itself invaluable. It 
is with the young a common fault, not to 
appreciate the value of time. A minuto is 
not so short but it may be devoted to a good 
purpose. Minutes are tho sands of ou^life, 
and every one which passes brings us nearer 
eternity. 
It appears plainly evident, from tho or¬ 
ganization of tho human system, (so nicely 
adapted to form a perfect whole) that the 
design was something beyond a mere pas¬ 
sive existence, or the luxurious gratification 
of sensual appetites. Were it not so, our 
knowledge would have been merely instinct¬ 
ive like that of animals, But progression 
seems to be the destiny of the human mind; 
and from the cradle to tho grave its march 
is onward. That mysterious principle which 
reasons, thinks and wills—the undeniable 
proof of our immortality—proves boyond a 
question that it is the imperative duty of 
every person to cul ivato their intellectual 
capacities in as thorough a manner as their 
circumstances will admit. I know of no 
good roason why young ladies should be ex¬ 
empted from this requisition. It seems to 
come especially ivithin their province. 
A taste for intellectual pursuits is usually 
an acquired habit, and a judicious mother 
may readily impress it upon the minds of 
her offspring. Tho mind is an essence, and 
action is its natural element. This propen¬ 
sity develops itself in very young children, 
and unless their minds are filled with 
something useful they naturally imbibe evil, 
because inaction is foreign to their consti- 
I am alone. The echo of light footsteps 
and music of young voices is hushed—sweet 
lips have breathed their kind “ good night,” 
and the lingering shadow of the last youth¬ 
ful form has disappeared from the open 
door. Seats are vacated, books have dis¬ 
appeared, dinner baskets that a short time 
since filled the entry shelves, have found a 
place on little arms, and hats and bonnets 
on young heads, for “ school is out.” Each 
unwearied foot hath gone its own glad way, 
and were it not for the ticking of the brass 
clock on the shelf yonder, tho school room 
would be noiseless. But clocks will tick— 
alike regardless of companionship and soli¬ 
tude—delaying not for Age, or hurrying for 
Youth, but steadily and surely ticking Time 
away, and Eternity near. 
The farmers are universally engaged in 
haying, and through the open windows come 
soft, cool breezes, bearing the perfume of 
the fragrant clover, and reminding me of 
the days of childhood, when I roamed amid 
its withered verdure— 
“ Light as the down of thistle, 
Free as the winds that blow.” 
Oh! who would not always be a child, and 
have it ever summer ? But it matters not 
that age silvers the hair, and dims the eye, 
or that the earth is strewn with withered 
bloom, and flowers we cherish seek a cold 
autumnal tomb; for if our hearts are young 
with the innocence and truth of childhood, 
the freshness of unchanging summer fra¬ 
grance will bloom within our spirit’s garden, 
and perpetual youth and summer will bo 
ours. 
The fourth of July has again come and 
gone. The virtue and heroism of the spir¬ 
its of “ seventy-six ” have once more been 
eulogized, and shouts and songs expressive 
of a Nation’s gratitude, floated upward on 
the breath of Heaven. We rejoice in lib¬ 
orty ; but ah ! were the spirits of our fore¬ 
fathers to come to us, mothinks they would 
broathe, perhaps iyion unwilling ears, this 
truth, “ Ye are not yet free. Your brother, 
God’s own image, groans to-day, beneath 
the fetters ye yourselves have forged; nor 
knows what freedom is. And ye, yourselves, 
are slaves—the veriest slaves of all—base 
slaves of many masters. Slaves of ambi¬ 
tion, of prejudice, of pride, of sect, of pop¬ 
ular opinion, of party, of fashion and of 
avarice.” 
The weather is, and has been for a few 
days past, extremely warm. Iam glad that 
my homo is not in the city, amid dust and 
confusion, and burning pavements, and tall 
houses that keep aw*ay the pure breeze.— 
When Autumn hangs bright garlands o’er 
tho earth—when falls the leaf and fades 
the flower—I w*ould not live in the city.— 
When Winter visits us with blast and storm, 
and we meet at evening about the home 
fireside, I would not live in the city. At 
the birth or the death of flowers, at tho 
coming or departing of day, ’neath the 
brightness of the sun at noon, or the glory 
of the heavens at night, I would not live in 
the city. And ye who dwell there, and have 
known better things, do ye not sometimes 
long for the green pastures and bright wa¬ 
ters, the verdure, the bloom, the fragrance 
and the songs of other days ? 
Kate Woodland. 
Carlton, N. Y., July 9, 1852. 
Wisdom has grown so used to calling 
aloud without attracting attention, that the 
good lady would be actually embarrassed 
if any mortal chanced to turn his head at 
her first summons. 
Female oducation is generally a gaudy 
and tawdry setting, which cumbers and al¬ 
most hides the jewel it ought to bring out. 
Solitude is necessary in the moments 
when grief is strongest and thought most 
troubled. 
